Nervous
by ididthatonce
Summary: Blaine's life is great. He's got an awesome boyfriend, good grades, and invitations to colleges around the country. But something is... off, and he can't quite explain what it is or why. From a prompt on the glee angst meme LJ comm.
1. Chapter 1

I never knew when or why it happened, it just did. Everything was perfect- I had the best boyfriend, Kurt, anyone could imagine. I was set to transfer to one of the best public schools in the state to be with him. I was the lead singer of a top-scoring a capella group. I had invitations for Summer programs at some of the best music schools in the country. I wasn't getting straight A's, but enough A's and B's to count as "good grades." My parents had finally begun to accept the fact that I'm gay, even letting me spend nights at my boyfriend's house here and there. Kurt's parents and step-brother liked me well enough. Everything was great.

But then everything changed.

It was May of my last semester at Dalton. I was sitting in my French final, trying to conjugate "venir" in subjunctive. I was halfway done, when I felt weird. It wasn't anything too worrisome, just a little twinge in my stomach. I knew this feeling- it was the same that I got before I went onstage at every concert. But I wasn't about to go onstage. I was sitting in Mme. Percy's classroom. The twinge got stronger. Suddenly, I felt nauseous, like I had eaten something bad for lunch. Maybe my pizza had sat out too long? The nausea spread, covering my whole stomach and into my chest. I was having trouble breathing. The air in the room was too hot. I couldn't feel whether or not my lungs were taking in air. I needed to get outside, to get away from the four walls that were threatening to close in on me. I scribbled down something on the sheet of paper, and basically threw it on Mme. Percy's desk, running out of the room. I scampered into the nearest bathroom I could find, bursting into the first open stall. I stood above the toilet, waiting for the vomit to come up, but it never did. I realized that I was breathing normally again, and pretty soon the nausea was gone. I thought nothing of it, maybe just nerves because French was typically my worst subject.

I managed to stay calm for the next few weeks. Sure, I worried about my grades and how the transfer would work, but I didn't think too much of it. I didn't feel any of that nausea again, but I kept an eye on my diet to make sure it stayed that way. Raw onions and vinegar were out, and I kept a case of tums in my glovebox, just in case. The semester was over, and Kurt and I started to spend more time together. He was helping to redecorate my room now that I was living with my parents again. We spent hours in the sheets section of Wal-Mart, laughing and debating whether a 500 thread count was worth the extra $20 it would cost. I decided on the higher thread count (with some prodding from Kurt, of course), and we made our way to my car.

All of a sudden, my throat started to tighten up. I stopped short.

"What's wrong?" Kurt asked, grabbing onto my arm.

"I don't want to drive right now." I responded in a monotone whisper.

"Do you want me to drive?" He asked. "I've got my license on me."

"No, it's not that. Can we just- can we walk over to the deli down the street? I need to walk around." I shrugged. We made our way over to the deli and got a few sandwiches. I listened to him talk about window trimmings and the pros and cons of bedskirts as we munched on our Rubens. Well, Kurt ate his. I picked the crust off mine and tried to eat it, but my stomach was still in knots. Halfway through his rant on paint colors, he noticed that I hadn't eaten anything.

"You okay?" He asked, making puppy-dog eyes at me. I hated it when he made that face. He could make me do anything he wanted, just by showing me those big blue eyes.

"Fine. Just not hungry, I guess." I sighed. "I'm gonna get a to-go box. Ready to go home?"

He started eating the last parts of his sandwich. "Sure. You cool to drive?"

"Yeah." I tried to swallow the lump that was forming in my throat. I couldn't really explain why I was nervous, but I was. If I had to put the irrational into rational words, I guess I would say that I was worried about crashing the car. I mean, it made no sense. I'm a good driver. I've always been a good driver. I've never gotten into an accident in my life. But there was this weird feeling of foreboding around me. I was terrified of getting in a car accident. No, more than that, I was SURE that it was going to happen. I felt like the world had stopped moving for a second and I was about to fly forward. My stomach acid was churning inside me. The last thing in the world I wanted was to get into that car. But, there was no choice about it. We had to get home, and my car was the only way I would get there.


	2. Chapter 2

Unsurprisingly, Kurt and I both made it back to my parents' house in one piece. Well, two pieces, since we're two people. The point is, there was no car crash, no sudden heart attack in the middle of the drive, no mysterious axe-murderers coming out of nowhere to chop our heads off. Just the gentle hum of the car engine and the 5:30 traffic jam. As soon as we got home, Kurt bounded out of his seat, sheets and riff-raff in tow, and skipped towards the door. He didn't ask if I was okay. It was as if my whole freakout meant nothing to him.

He didn't care.

No, that was ridiculous. Of course he cared. He was dating me. He was helping redecorate my room for Chrissakes. Obviously the boy cared an awful lot about me.

He was going to leave me.

I couldn't shut the voice in my head up.

"Of course Kurt isn't going to leave me," I thought, double-checking to make sure that I didn't lock my keys in the car again. "He loves me and I love him. There's nothing more that needs to be said."

But did he love me? He hadn't said it yet. And didn't even notice how upset I was earlier.

I slammed the car door shut, hoping the sound would knock me off the path that monologue was taking. It did, temporarily. By the time I got up to my room, Kurt had already begun stripping the old sheets off my bed and putting the new ones on. I noticed that he had set up a desk lamp on my antique-looking desk in the corner of the room, and through its canvas shade, it was spilling a warm, caramel-colored glow over the whole room. I flopped down into my grandfather's old recliner, and watched as Kurt made sure the fitted sheet was even on all sides.

"Aren't you going to help?" He asked playfully.

I smiled. "I'm exhausted. And anyway, you know that I'll just muck it up. I'm clumsy when it comes to these kinds of things."

"False." He laughed, and sat down on the bed he had just made. "Besides, I find your clumsiness adorable."

He was lying. He must have been. No one finds awkwardness adorable. He was hiding something. He was upset with me. He was saying he found the clumsiness adorable, but really he found it irritating.

"I love you." I blurted out, before I could think. Kurt sat, wide-eyed, and stared at me for what felt like forever. I had ruined everything. I said the L-Word too son, and now Kurt was about to storm out the door, and out of my life forever. It was done. I'd messed up the one good thing I'd ever had.

My chest was tight. My throat felt so tiny that I could swear the sides were touching. I could feel the acid churning in my stomach again, but this time it had nothing to grip onto. I was hungry, but felt like I had just eaten a full buffet. The acid was rising up into my throat.

"I love you, too." Kurt sighed, jumping onto my lap.

"What?" I asked. Kurt laughed.

"What did you expect me to say?" He giggled, propping his legs on the arm of the chair.

"Honestly? I expected you to storm out the door and never talk to me again." I blushed.

He ran a finger along my jawbone. "Why did you say it then?"

I shrugged. "The words just kind of came out."

"Then you must love me on a total subconscious level." Kurt giggled. "Freud would be proud."

"Please keep Freud out of our relationship." I laughed, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek.

Of course, as soon as the soft kiss turned into something- shall we say- more dramatic, my mother rapped her perfectly manicured fingernails on the door. I hadn't even realized that it was closed, but apparently I had shut it on my way in.

"Can I come in?" Mom asked, opening the door. Kurt sprung off my lap and onto the arm of the chair faster than the blink of an eye.

"Yeah, we were just talking." I mumbled, playing with a loose thread on my shirt.

"Of course you were." She responded dryly. "Kurt, will you be staying for dinner tonight?"

"No ma'am. It's Taco Thursday at my place, and I promised Dad that I'd be there." Kurt said, careful not to look Mom in the eyes. She was like a basilisk- one look in the eyes and you were doomed.

"Very well. Blaine, see your friend out and get ready for dinner. I'll need you to set the table before your father gets home." She sighed, examining her fingernails. I nodded, and as she walked away, all I could hear was the click-clack of her shoes walking down the stairs.

Kurt let out a loud sigh. "I guess I should be going."

"Please don't be offended, Kurt. She's not a very warm, caring person. Hell, I'm pretty sure that it's a miracle I never got frostbite when she was breastfeeding me." I tried to laugh. Kurt was nibbling on his left index finger's knuckle, something he did when upset. I knew I was in over my head, but the damage had been done.

"I need to go, hon'." He murmured, gathering his thing up from around my room. "No need to show me out, I know where the door is."

"Please don't do this," I pleaded. "We were so fine a minute ago. Remember? I love you and all?"

Kurt flopped down on the bed. "I don't really want to talk about this right now, Blaine. I'm just frustrated is all."

Our first fight as a couple.

My stomach was churning again. I was reminded for the second time in an hour that I hadn't eaten all day. I couldn't pay attention that now, though. My heart was pounding in my ears. My throat felt tight, like I was having some kind of allergic reaction. I grabbed at it, trying to pull it open.

"Are you okay?" I could hear Kurt say faintly. It was like I was hearing someone speaking underwater. I kept holding onto my throat, my fingernails starting to dig into the skin. I tried to form words, but only sounds came out. I couldn't breathe. I was slumped back in my chair, clawing at nothing, my face on fire.

"Blaine, what's wrong?" Kurt was kneeling next to me. I guess I was on the floor now, somehow. "Blaine, are you okay?"

"Can't... breathe..." I managed to squeak out.

Kurt grabbed my hand. "Shh," he cooed, "it's going to be a okay. You're breathing fine."

"No... it hurts. My stomach. My chest. It all hurts." I cried.

"You're fine, Blaine. Calm down." He was rubbing my back, speaking softly. "Just listen to what I'm saying. Close your eyes and listen to my voice." I did as I was told. "You're fine, Blaine. You're going to be okay. Just breathe. Concentrate on breathing." I counted my breaths in and out, allowing myself to feel Kurt's hand on my back and hear the sound of his voice. Before long, my mind was working normally again, although my stomach still felt like a tempest.

"What was that?" I asked, my heart still racing.

"I don't know. Are you okay?" He replied.

"I think so?" I half-asked, half-stated.

"Has that happened before?" He asked. I nodded. "Blaine, I think something might be wrong." He said slowly.

I shook my head as tears started welling up in my eyes. "Please don't say that. Just... just stay with me here for a minute, okay? Until I calm down?" Kurt nodded, and held me closer.


	3. Chapter 3

I sat through dinner, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. I poked at my dinner, not really eating anything, but poking at the food. Mom and Dad discussed something about one of Dad's cases as work. I couldn't really pay close attention to what they were saying, my heart was pounding so hard. I tried to listen to individual words they were saying, but I was still feeling off. Dad finally took notice.

"What's wrong, Kiddo?" He asked, swirling spaghetti onto his fork.

"Nothing." I shrugged, closing my eyes. The sight of Dad putting food into his mouth was just disgusting to me. I didn't want to think about food, eating, mouths, anything. Every bite he took reverberated in my ears. I was going to vomit on the dinner table – right then and there, all over the dishes and silverware and the new tablecloth. My stomach felt like it was filled with rocks. I couldn't handle it anymore. I had to get out of there. I mumbled out a "may I be excused" and ran off to my room, knocking over my chair on the way.

I woke up in my bed an hour later to the feel of my dad's hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay, Sport?" He asked, sitting on the foot of my bed. "You didn't throw up, did you? You looked like a ghost."

"I don't think so." I grumbled, still half-asleep. "I felt like I was going to, though."

Dad put his hand to my forehead. "Cool as a cucumber." He smiled. "Definitely no fever. What else is wrong?"

I buried my head into my pillow. "I don't want to talk about it, Dad."

Dad sighed audibly. "You've just been off, lately." He said. "Your mother and I are worried."

"Don't be." I replied. "I'm fine. Everything is fine."

"You know that's not true, Blaine. You didn't even touch your dinner tonight. Normally you go back for seconds."

My stomach grumbled. I suddenly remembered that I hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. Dad was still talking, though.

"You've been withdrawn, you barely leave the house, your grades are dropping... if you won't talk to us, can you at least talk to Dr. Rosen?" He concluded.

I groaned and rolled my eyes. Dr. Rosen was the therapist they had sent me to when I first came out of the closet. Convinced that my sexual orientation was somehow a reflection of their poor parenting, Mom and Dad made me go to weekly psychotherapy sessions to sort out my "problem." The doctor was, thankfully, more gay-friendly than they anticipated, but I still dreaded going to see him. The office was at least a twenty-minute drive away, and his office always smelled of mildew and sweat. He would ask questions about my life, my personal secrets, and I hated answering them. This man barely knew me- I was convinced that he had to look at my chart to even remember my name- and yet he felt that he had the right to ask questions about my most intimate thoughts. He would chew on the end of his pen as I spoke, spilling everything I knew about myself into words, and simply mutter "interesting" as soon as I was done.

I guess I kind of expected more of a warm, fuzzy feeling from him, like I saw in movies where someone goes to a therapist. They always come out with a new lease on life, feeling that all their problems had been solved. And yet, I always left Dr. Rosen's office in a worse mood than I entered. He made me feel like a scientific curiosity rather than a patient. I never so much as received a calming word from him, not even a "this is normal" or "your feelings are common." In fact, it wasn't until earlier that year, when Kurt and I were sharing coming-out stories, that I realized that the anguish I felt about being gay, the feelings of being left out and rejected, were things other people had felt in the same situation.

Nonetheless, I found myself sitting in the same waiting room later that week, flipping mindlessly through a Highlights magazine. The office still smelled like mildew and sweat. The receptionist was even still the same, a tall brunette with a thick southern accent who called me "sir" as I signed my name. I stared at the aquarium in the waiting room, watching as a zebra-striped eel poked its head in and out from a hole in a rock.

"Blaine?" A soft female voice asked, and I turned to see an unfamiliar face standing in the hallway. I stood up and silently strode over to its source. She was a heavyset blond woman, maybe in her late thirties, with a warm, round face. Her eyes were a bright blue that matched the color of her turtleneck sweater. She smiled at me, and I saw that there was a large gap in between her two front teeth. Before I could react, she grabbed my hand in a handshake. "Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Gould. I took over Dr. Rosen's practice last September. I believe you were one of his patients?"

I nodded, still unsure how to react to this friendly woman still gripping my right hand tightly.

"Well, come back, and we'll get started." She led me to the same old office I used to visit. The blinds were cracked, letting a small amount of sunshine into the room. The couches were all new- corduroy-covered overstuffed sofas with faux-fur pillows in the corners. Perched on her desk was a ceramic frog, sitting cross-legged with one foot dangling over the edge of the desk. Dr. Gould took a seat in an armchair that matched the couch. She sat upright and began. "Blaine, why don't you tell me what you and Dr. Rosen discussed when you were here?"

I sighed and leaned back. "Nothing too interesting. Just how I was feeling about life, the things I was going through in school, the usual."

She smiled and nodded. "Good. What brings you back into the office?"

"My dad made me." She and I shared a laugh.

"Believe me, I know how that is. The first time I went to a psychiatrist, my mother basically had to bribe me. But after I started going, it became a lot easier. I eventually realized that there was no shame in seeing a psychiatrist, even if you don't have a mental disorder. We can all use a sounding board."

I shrugged. "I guess."

"So tell me what life has been like for you lately. Any big changes?"

And then everything started spilling out- coming out to my parents, coming out to my friends, transferring to Dalton, joining the Warblers, meeting Kurt, transferring to McKinley... I told her my entire life story in one fell swoop. She nodded the whole time, throwing in a few "uh-huhs" and "yeahs." By the time I reached the end, I felt as though I had just run a mile. I had the wind knocked out of me.

"Sounds like you've been through a lot in the past few years, Blaine." She stated. "How have you handled it?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, leaning forward.

"We all need stress relief. What do you do? How do you tell if you're getting too stressed?"

"I don't know." I answered truthfully. "I usually just play guitar when I'm stressed or take a nap or something."

She smiled. "Have you noticed any physical changes since you started having more stress? Changes in weight, eating habits, sleeping patterns?"

I sighed. "Not really. I mean, I've been more nervous lately, but I figured that was just par for the course."

She scribbled furiously on her clipboard. "Have you noticed any patterns in your nervousness? Any triggers?"

"Triggers?" I asked.

"A trigger is a certain event or feeling that makes you feel nervous." She replied, clicking the end of her pen.

"Oh yeah." I said. "Lots. When I feel nauseous, when I'm around food, when I'm driving, when someone else is driving, when I'm apart from my boyfriend... lots of things make me nervous."

She kept writing on her clipboard. "So it sounds like a lot of everyday occurrences make you nervous."

I nodded, looking down to the floor. I had never thought about it that way, but Dr. Gould had a point. Things made me nervous that probably wouldn't upset most people. No, things that DEFINITELY wouldn't upset most people made m me nervous. I know for a fact that Kurt had no problem driving, and that even the thought of getting into a serious accident didn't faze him. On the other hand, I had to white-knuckle the steering wheel whenever I drove because my hands were shaking so bad.

"Can you tell me what it feels like when you're nervous?"

Another thing I had never thought about. I tried to put myself into the previous week when I had freaked out in front of Kurt. I closed my eyes and imagined the room, the feeling of the chair, the temperature, the stress I was feeling. "Hot... I feel very hot. Almost like I have a fever. No, exactly like I have a fever. And my stomach churns and I completely lose my appetite." I swallowed hard and opened my eyes. I was starting to feel nervous again, and I wanted to ground myself in reality. That was another feeling. "It's like nothing else exists... I can't remember the past, and I can't think at all about the future, even five minutes from where I am. I'm stuck right then and there."

The room was silent except for the quiet scratch-scratch-scratch of Dr. Gould's pen on her paper. I stared at her for a moment, wondering what she was writing about me. "Blaine is severely disturbed?" Probably. Or "Blaine is a hopeless case." I shook my head violently to throw the negative thoughts away.

"What's wrong with me?" I blurted out.

She put her pen behind her ear and looked me dead in the eye. "Blaine, I want to be completely clear with you. There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing at all. I believe that you have what is called General Anxiety Disorder."

I slumped back in my chair. It had a name. All this anguish, all these nerves, condensed into three multisyllabic words.

"GAD is very common. It's one hundred percent treatable. There is nothing wrong with you, just a chemical imbalance in your brain. Once that's corrected, you will be fine." She continued. "Do you understand?"

I nodded weakly. "Will you be able to cure me?"

She shook her head. "The idea is to manage the disorder, not to cure it. We'll keep having these therapy sessions, and start you on some low-dose antidepressants to combat the problem."

I could feel my eyes welling up with tears, but I tried to choke them back. "So I... I have to deal with this forever?"

She looked at me with her big, blue eyes, obviously trying to comfort me. "Most likely. Diagnosis is just the beginning of managing this disorder. It's going to be a tough journey, I'm afraid. We still have a ways to go before you'll be able to manage this on your own. I don't mean to upset you, I just want you to understand that this isn't the end of the line."

I nodded, unable to speak without crying. Dr. Gould scribbled a prescription down and handed me the sheet. "I'll see you in two weeks?" She half-asked, half-stated. I nodded and smiled, albeit a cold, fake smile, and headed out to pick up the bill.


	4. Chapter 4

I woke up one Thursday morning, feeling like I had just run a mile. It took a good ten minutes before I could work my way out of bed. My knees were shaking, my left arm was still waking up. By the time I got up to my feet, my heart was pounding. It took all the energy I had to get down the stairs and into the kitchen. My mother was at the sink, fussing over a dirty pan and humming a song to herself. I cleared my throat, trying to let her know I was awake without scaring her. The noise came out as a soft grumble that even I could barely hear. "Mom?" I asked in a half-whisper.

She turned around, her hazel eyes intensely focused on me. "Blaine? I'm surprised you're awake this early."

I shrugged. "I couldn't really sleep."

"Are you feeling okay?" She shuffled over to feel my forehead with the back of her hand. "You feel cool."

"Just the meds, I think." I mumbled.

"Are you at least feeling less nervous?" She held the sides of my face, looking me directly in the eyes. Something in her eyes looked like worry, maybe even pain. Mom wasn't exactly one to show too much emotion... her tenure in the corporate world had knocked that out of her. But, every so often, she would have little moments where I could see how much she cared for me. It was in the food she made, the way she was holding my face, how her thick eyebrows wrinkled together in the middle when something was wrong. It was times like these that I really cherished with her. So, when my heart started to race, I was understandably perturbed. The worry in my face must have shown, since she immediately asked me, "What's wrong?"

"Just freaking out." I gasped, my throat tightening. Tears were starting to well up behind my eyes. I hated this. I hated everything. I just wanted to go back upstairs and go back to sleep.

"Blainers?" She said. The nickname she used to use when I was a kid. My eyes spilled over and I started crying into her shoulder. She tapped my upper back, insecurity in every pat. I was trying to explain to her everything I was feeling, everything I wanted to say, but my throat was too tight to talk, and my tongue felt like it was taking over my mouth.

I managed to slow my sobs down enough to utter out a few half-sentences. "Scared... I don't want... so terrified that you will... please don't go."

Mom shushed me. "You're not making sense, Blainers. Just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't explain." I sighed, leaning my forehead into her shoulder. "Do you ever get an overwhelming sense that something is about to go terribly wrong?"

"Not really, but I know what you mean."

I smiled. It was just like my mother to be brutally honest about a question that was mostly rhetorical. Her hand was still slowly patting my back, and the rhythm was lulling me back into a sense of security. "I just worry a lot. I love you, Mom, and I just want to have you in my life forever."

"Well, that's not likely, Blainers." She mumbled.

"Don't say that."

"Why are you so worried about my mortality?" She pulled my face back up into her palms, looking me in the eyes. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"No, I just. I can't explain it, Mom."

"Try."

I took a deep breath. "I love you so much and I care about you. Every time I think about losing you, and how it could happen at any time, I just want to break down in tears."

Mom shook her head. "I love you, too, Blainers, but I just don't get why you're so upset. Death is a part of life. Your father and I have had our cemetery plots picked out for years-"

I cut her off, putting my fingers in my ears and singing "Teenage Dream" at the top of my lungs. I didn't want to think about her and dad's cemetery plots or their funeral arrangements. The thought made my blood run cold. I wanted to disappear. I want to hold her. I wanted to do six thousand things to calm myself at once, but I couldn't. So, I kept singing until Mom pulled my hands off my ears. Her face was growing red with frustration, and I could see a vein in her temple beginning to pulse.

"Blaine. You're being absolutely ridiculous." She pushed a strand of blond hair behind her ear. "Your father and I are fine. I'm not going to have this conversation with you if you're going to be irrational."

"I'm not being irrational. It just freaks me out to think about it." I threw my arms into the air and started pacing.

She sighed. "I don't even know you anymore. You used to be so level-headed. Now you get upset at the drop of a hat. I thought this problem would get solved as soon as you saw the doctor, but it seems to have gotten worse. I just... I don't know anymore, Blainers."

We stared at each other for a few moments, trying to decide the best thing to say. Neither of us said anything.

Mom finally broke the silence. "Do you want breakfast?"


	5. Chapter 5

Within a week, I was back in Dr. Gould's office, gripping onto a throw pillow to keep myself from crying. The mid-afternoon sunlight was refracted through her venetian blinds, scattering all over the room. I tried to pay attention to the story I was telling, but a hangnail on my right pinky was distracting me. Midway through a sentence, I stopped, forgetting the words I was saying.

"I'm sorry, I lost my train of thought." I muttered, "What was I saying?"

"You were talking about your boyfriend." She stated plainly, chewing on the end of her pen. "Is he being supportive?"

"Oh. That. Yes. Kurt has been good." I sighed. "It's hard for him to understand how I feel sometimes. He doesn't fully get what it's like to have a panic attack or just be nervous for no reason."

"Now, does he know about your GAD?" She asked.

"Sort of." I replied in a half-whisper. "He knows that I have anxiety attack and what they look like. I haven't told him yet what the name of the disorder is."

Dr. Gould smiled at me. "You said, 'disorder.' Does this mean that you're coming to terms with your condition?"

"I guess." I sighed. "I don't love that I have a disease, but it's kind of unavoidable, no?"

She nodded and scribbled on her notepad.

"Can we go back to talking about my boyfriend? That's a more... um... comfortable topic." I sighed.

She nodded. "You said that he has been less than 100% supportive of your situation. Can you give me an example?" She asked.

I leaned back into the couch and racked my brain to think of an instance where Kurt had been less-than-supportive. Truthfully, it was hard to think up one when pressed. It was more of a feeling that I got, a sense that Kurt was lost when I was absorbed into my anxiety. I tried to find the words to express that, but tripped over my tongue. In the midst of stuttering out Kurt's name, I finally remembered an event that had happened just a few days earlier.

Kurt and I went out for our first big date since my diagnosis. We had started a tradition back when he was at McKinley and I was at Dalton where we had a Big Date Night once a month. Living across town from each other, we tried to make it a priority to make time for each other. So, as usual, we found ourselves at a fondue restaurant, holding hands in between the flickering candles on the table. Kurt was wearing a favorite shirt of his that slid off his shoulder. I was quite fond of the shirt, too, for obvious reasons.

The waitress brought out the chocolate and marshmallows for dessert. I laughed at something or another that Kurt said. I gripped his fingers closer as the waitress lit a fire under the fondue pot. I was about to lean in for a kiss when I heard my phone make a strange noise. I pulled it out of my pocket and saw about a half-dozen calls from my parents. The time read 10:45. It was a full 15 minutes after I was supposed to be home.

"Crap." I muttered under my breath, gathering my things.

"What is it, babe?" Kurt asked, dipping a marshmallow into the pot.

I stood up. "Sorry to eat and run. I'm running late. I'll pay you back. Sorry." I apologized profusely.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Can't you call your parents and tell them you'll be late?"

"Can't." I shook my head. "Dad is a stickler for punctuality."

"Please?" Kurt made his big puppy-dog eyes at me. "I really want to feed you some of these strawberries."

The offer was tempting, but I shook my head. "They'll be upset. They're probably already really mad." Saying the words made me realize how upset their anger made me. I felt my chest tense up. My parents were probably pacing the foyer at that point, checking their watches obsessively. They were worried about me, I knew that much. If I didn't call within the next ten minutes, she would call the police. If I did call, she would yell at me. I hate being yelled at more than almost anything. As soon as I got home, I would be grounded. They would be mad for weeks. I might be banned from dating Kurt. Actually, I probably would be. I definitely would be.

"Blaine." Kurt sighed, knocking me out of my emotional whirlpool. "Just stay. What's another 15 minutes? I'll even foot the bill. Just stay with me."

"I can't." I mumbled.

Out of nowhere, Kurt slammed his fist onto the table. "Dammit, Blaine. Is it so hard to have just one normal date with you?"

I looked at my feet, trying my hardest to disappear. "Kurt, I just don't want my parents to be mad. It's worrying me. You know how I worry..."

"Jesus, just stop worrying already!" He growled, looking up to the ceiling.

"I can't." I muttered.

"You always say that. Have you ever tried?" He crossed his arms.

"I'm not having this conversation right now. Not while we're both upset, and not while we're in a restaurant." I stated. "I'll pay for our next two dates. I just need to go now." I left without looking back at Kurt.

I completed telling the story to Dr. Gould, picking anxiously at my guitar calluses. The room was still for a moment.

"Did you two make up?" She finally asked.

"Sort of." I sighed. "I apologized for leaving, and he apologized for blowing up at me."

"But he still doesn't understand your anxiety?" She probed.

I shook my head.

She checked her watch and scribbled a few notes down. "That's it for this week. Let me know how things go next time I see you."


	6. Chapter 6

On the way home from the therapist, I called Kurt up, halfway hoping that he wouldn't answer the phone and I could just leave a message. I was making a particularly difficult right-hand turn out of the office park when he picked up. My brain was working on about six different things, so instead of my usual response of, "hey, Kurticus," I made a kind of grumbly groan.

"Blaine?" Kurt replied, and I could almost hear him rolling his eyes.

"Sorry. Concentrating on driving. What's up?" I mumbled.

"Maybe you should just stick to driving then." Kurt said.

I took a deep breath. "Well, excuse me for calling my boyfriend up after a particularly intense therapy session." As soon as the words left my mouth, dripping with sarcasm, I knew they were the wrong choice.

"You know, I'm just trying to snap you out of this stupid funk you're in. Sorry for caring."

"It's not a funk, Kurt." My nose wrinkled at the name. "I have a legitimate psychological disorder and-"

"Oh spare me the psychobabble, Blaine." Kurt imitated my tone. "You think it's a thrill for me to have to baby my boyfriend when-"

"It's not psychobabble. Why don't you get a damn psychology textbook and look up General Anxiety Disorder. It's a real-"

"Oh sure, all the answers to our problems are found in textbooks. Blaine has one panic attack and suddenly he's the expert on every disorder ever. I'll have you know-"

"I never said I was an expert on anything. You're the one who's not willing to listen to-"

"_I _won't listen? I'm trying my damn hardest, but you don't seem to see how selfish you're being. What, I'm supposed to drop everything and-"

"Selfish? _Selfish_? Kurt, my life is crumbling around me right now, and I just need a little-"

"You see? That's exactly it!" He shouted, right as a car behind me honked. I realized that I had been sitting at a green light for almost a full minute. My vision was starting to become hazy, and I pulled into the nearest parking lot as Kurt started berating me so loudly, I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

"What's it?" I asked, a little too cautiously.

Kurt sighed, and I could tell that he was trying to keep from shouting again. "You say your life is crumbling around you. You're always talking about how everything is falling apart. But you have both your parents and your sister and your doctors and... and you have me."

"I know I do. And I'm glad that-"

"Just let me talk, Blaine. We've been together for, what, six months now? You're transferring schools to be with me. Me. And suddenly, as soon as the ink is dry on the paperwork, you start freaking out and saying that everything has gone to shit. How is that supposed to make me feel?"

I gulped. He had a point. "I'm sorry, babe. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

"Are you still paying?" He laughed, and I knew that was a yes.

By the time I got home, my parents were preparing dinner. Dad was chopping up an onion, mumbling something about an old record to Mom. I coughed, and leaned against the doorframe. Mom turned around and smiled, tilting her head towards one of the kitchen chairs. I silently took a seat, knowing that nothing good could come of whatever was about to happen. Bad news always came around our kitchen table. When we had moved from Cleveland to Lima, I was told the news over that table. I remember picking at a crusty mustard stain that was probably older than I was at the time, listening to my dad explain the reasons we had to leave our home and our friends. I was only ten, I couldn't understand what a "mid-career switch" was. All I knew was that I was leaving all my friends, the cute boy down the street, the older girl who taught me how to braid hair.

Come to think of it, I had told my parents I was gay over that table. It was barely a year later, the boxes just starting to disappear from everyone's rooms. We were eating a silent dinner, the sound of the wall clock ticking barely drowning out the chewing noises around the table. Mid-bite, I blurted out, "All my friends are dating girls, but I want to date boys." Mom began coughing. Dad spat out his wine. My sister started cracking up. Once the chaos had died down, Mom started clearing my plate. "I'm not done!" I cried out, but she wouldn't listen. I knew that I had said something wrong, but I wasn't sure what. I didn't bring up the matter again for years, until I saw a scene in a movie and suddenly had a realization of what "gay" was. Once again, around that damn table, I told my parents that I was gay. This time, they nodded in acknowledgment, but I could still see the disappointment and frustration behind their eyes.

I was pulled out of my memory by my mother's soft hand on mine. I looked at her eyes and could see that she had asked a question and was expecting an answer.

"I'm sorry, I missed the question." I responded dryly, my eyes studying the place on her fingers where the nail polish was beginning to chip.

She sighed, exasperated. "I swear, you live in your own world sometimes, Blaine. I asked how your therapy sessions were going."

Something was up. As nice of a person as she could be, Mom was not one to ask about my day-to-day life without some kind of ulterior motive. "It's fine. Dr. Gould is pretty great. We're making progress."

Mom nodded. Dad coughed quietly.

"What are you two up to?" I grumbled, pulling my hand away from Mom's.

"Nothing!" Both stated, almost shouting.

"We're just worried about you." Dad sighed, taking hold of my forearm. I could still feel the moisture on his fingers from the onion he was chopping. I could almost smell the distinctive odor coming from his hands. For a second, I was so distracted by the smell that I could forget the complete and utter crap that was coming out of his mouth.

But only for a second.

"We don't want to be wasting your time if these sessions aren't working." Mom added. She tried to grab my hand again, but I slid away. "We're just worried that you're not seeing any improvement, and we feel like this is just something you need to get through on your own."

"On my own?" I echoed. I could feel my face getting flushed. I wanted to stand up and scream, but I kept my poker face and stayed in my seat.

"Yes, Blaine." Dad grumbled. "We feel like your progress is stagnating."

"It's been two weeks." I muttered.

"Pardon?" Mom asked.

I sighed, trying to calm the rage that was growing in my stomach. "It's been two goddamn weeks, mother. This shit takes years to get under control."

"Watch your language, Blaine." Dad gritted his teeth. His grip on my arm tightened involuntarily. He must have realized it, though, because he immediately removed his hand.

"I'm just saying, I can't be expected to be perfect yet. There's no magic pill for anxiety. I just have to work through it." I crossed my arms.

"We're not expecting you to be perfect." Mom said. "We just feel like you're maybe blowing this out of proportion. Maybe you're just being too sensitive. Can't you just... buck up a bit? Try not to take everything so personally?"

I finally gave into my rage. I jumped out of my chair, making it click loudly on the floor as it wobbled. "I'm not having this conversation with you guys right now. I'm not being overly sensitive. I do have a problem. If you don't believe me, that's fine, but it's the truth. I'll be up in my room, talking to my boyfriend if you need me." I took a deep breath and raised my voice. "Yes, I said 'boyfriend.' Because as much as you guys hate to admit it, I'm gay. And I have an anxiety disorder as well. You'll either have to accept it or learn to deal with it."

Dad grabbed his temples. "Blaine, we don't want to argue with you. But I think that this whole thing is just taking over your life. I'll make you a compromise. If you get a job this summer, we'll let you keep going to Dr. Gould. Deal?"

I glared at him, trying to call his bluff. There was nothing there. He was being 100% truthful. "Deal." I muttered.

* * *

><p>AN: Hey all! Sorry that this chapter took so long to get out. Work has been crazy lately, and I'm taking two classes this summer, AND I'm doing an internship. Things have been out-of-control. Hopefully, though, I'll be able to start working on this more often, and will be able to finish it by the end of the summer. I've planned the rest of the plot out, and it's going to be 10-12 chapters. So we're halfway there (whoa-oh living on a prayer).

Also, thanks to the kind words from everyone! I've received a lot of questions about whether or not I've had GAD, and the short answer is: sort of. I've had an anxiety disorder and clinical depression for over ten years now, diagnosed when I was 9 or 10. (I'm 22 now, for reference). I have panic attacks to this day, although no more than a few times a month. I've been in regular therapy and medicated for my disorders since I was diagnosed. It took a long time to get things leveled out, almost five years. But I'm a well-adjusted (although certainly not normal!) person who just simply happens to be more neurotic than most. So when I talk about going to the therapist or medication, I know what I'm talking about!

Please continue reading, and don't forget to read my other stuff! I've got a masterpost of my fanfic over at my tumblr, so don't hesitate to check it out.


End file.
